The Winning Recipe
by Raggedy Dama
Summary: AU:Sherlock Holmes; a long time Sous-Chef de Cuisine, claiming for the title 'head chef', finds an unexpected rival in the new commis-John Watson. Why unexpected? Because, much to his annoyance, the man can't even differ a brittish biscuit from a french biscoit. Eventual Johnlock.


**AN: My first AU contribution to the Sherlock fandom. All of the valuable and useful information about this chapter is in the notes in the end.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. Any meal names or terms used in this chapter are real, but naturally don't belong to me.  
**

**Chapter One**

For the better part of my childhood, my professional aspirations were quite simple- I wanted to be an intergalactic warrior. Not that I was interested in terrorising or fighting space people. No. To be frank, it was mostly because of my massive obsession with Star Wars and my desire to wear a cape, a pair of sexy boots and, of course, carrying a cool weapon. Because what kind of a space hero doesn't have an awesome weapon, right?

As it happens, the space warrior thing didn't work out for me, so I went to the army, successfully got shot and came back, only to not have a proper job and any actual idea of what I wanted to do. That was until a curious thing happened.

Back in the days when I was at Afghanistan, I had this...knack for cooking, consequently I was in charge for the kitchen duty( and the disgusting process of cleaning up afterwards) most of times, and me and the lads helping, had the occasional run-in with this posh man, Mycroft Holmes, was his name.

He was six or seven years older than me, was always dressed in a suit from his head to his foot... and he'd always have his droll little mouth drawn up unpleasantly. Actually there was nothing pleasant in our meetings, but even back then, I felt like there was something too important about him, to be ignored. And oh, I could not have been more correct!

We continued having those run-ins with Mycroft and he was still no less unpleasant, but over a few weeks it became the sort of unpleasant that you actually start to like. No, nothing like that. Only those meetings were a superb distraction from my predicament, and the man always seemed to know a lot of fine jokes about ministers and government workers.

Then, only a few days before I got shot, we met again, but this time with a purpose. He smiled that creepy smile of his and with a twinkle in his eyes, handed me a card with some odd words written on it( I suspected it was French) and asked me to phone him as soon as I got back to London.

At the time, I was confused as to what the man could possibly mean or want from me, but later when he offered me a work in one of his restaurants, I could not have been more glad for meeting up with him.

So what that I never got the cape or the boots...though I do have a sort of a cool weapon now. A spoon.

Ridiculous isn't it? In the army it was a gun. How dull you may think. What one can possibly do with a spoon, you will ask. A hell lot more than with a gun, I, John Hamish Watson, can assure you, while running in an unthinkable speed, two hours late on my first day of work.

* * *

Without speaking, without raising his eyes from the ground, the blond man set off down one of the streets of London, bracing his figure to the bitter wind. It was cold outside, terribly cold, but surprisingly the terrace was crowded with people, all pushing and elbowing each other to have an opportunity to move.

He checked his watch, cursed under his breath and tried to hasten his pace. But he could not go faster. His leg, still partly without life, lay heavy as lead, pulling, dragging, bending him down. To be like this; at such a time!

He hastily turned the corner into another street and almost cried out in relief as the familiar headboard with 'Angelo's' written over it, came into his view. Maybe things would somehow get better...

"Strike me dead, if it isn't my cliente preferito!" a large bulky man, with an elegant thin mustache, cried in excitement upon seeing him, "What can I do for you, my boy?"

John held out a hand in the universal 'just a minute' sign, as he rested his sore legs and tried to catch his breath. There was only so much running around he could do, after his hospitalising and putting a stop to his soldiery routine with all kinds of exercises.

When he was sure he could talk, he grinned and extended a hand to the street vendor to shake. "Hello to you too. Can you fix me up something real quick? I'm a bit in a hurry."

"Ah, I see." Angelo's smile faded and he rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking at John with dismay. "Same again?"

"Sort of." The younger man responded, screwing his eyes shut and putting a hand over his chest, still trying to calm his ragged breathing.

"I thought you wanted the job..." the vendor said, looking at him uncertainly.

"I did! I still do."

John sighed as the man did not seem at all impressed by his reasoning and he effectively attempted to change the subject.

"Is this fresh?" he asked instead, pointing at what was supposed to be a meat pie.

"Certo!It's been mewling just a while ago." Angelo answered just as casually, and at John's bewildered expression, rolled his eyes.

"Of course it is fresh!" He said indignantly, puffing out his chest in a proud manner. "Everything at Angelo's is sempre fresco! What kind of a question is that?"

John immediately took a defenseless posture and chuckled lightly."Right, sorry. Just making sure. My stomach's still sore from the yesterday's egg. I think it was spoilt."

"Too bad."

"No. Only one." The ex-soldier answered, with a cheeky wink and with a quick thank-you and a grab for his soon-to-be breakfast, took off again.

"Why you snarky..." Then the italian only shook his head fondly and waved a large hand after him. "Buona fortuna!"

* * *

In about fifteen minutes John( with his stomach now pleasantly full) had reached a snowy-white building which towered over the other little shops. He glanced up with a satisfied smirk at the words engraved in gold just above its burnished bronze doors. 'Mangez Bien' it said.

John straightened the collar of his slightly rumpled shirt( a result of his running marathon from earlier) combed his messy hair back with his fingers and with confident movements stepped into the building, where the most succulent and ineffable meals in whole London were being prepared, and where the finest myriad of professional cooks worked.

* * *

"That, is absolute dog shit!"

The distinguished looking man, dressed in white and scarlet uniform, screwed his face in distaste, resisting the urge to throw away( or at a particular target) the whole plate, filled with what looked like a slightly over cooked arborio.

"This dish is clumsy...just like you." he went on to the next table, and very nearly drove a grown man to tears.

"Anderson!" he bellowed, causing everyone in the room to flinch, and almost the same instant a shaggy tall man pottered to him.

"Yes, chef."

Gregory Lestrade narrowed his eyes dangerously at the younger chef, and brought up the offensive plate right under Anderson's long nose.

"What's _this_?" he gritted out with a surprisingly gentle tone, which made the chef de partie gulp in fright.

"It's bean soup, sir."

"No matter what it's been. What is it _now_?" the man almost shouted and Anderson hurried to splutter an explanation.

A pair of lilt blue eyes had been observing the scene with suppressed amusement. Of course they would be, when attached to someone of such proper conduct and someone so idyllic as G. Lestrade's second chef, Sherlock Holmes.

His unruly dark mop of hair was barely restrained by his pearly white toque of his rank, and the resplendent expression on his face spoke volumes of his attitude towards his colleague( well, everyone in general). Undoubtedly anyone would be merry if they were in his place, being the favourable one in the kitchen, who had been able to please their chef. And now, feeling like a delighted little puppy, who had just been praised by its master, he continued watching the scene with a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

He caught Anderson's eye and raised a delicate eyebrow at the man's penetrating glare. The gesture only made the chef, specialised in first meals, clench his fists in fury and oh if looks could kill.

The smirk faded from Sherlock's face as soon as the door opened to reveal one edgy John Watson. He looked across the room at John and tried not to grimace.

"Hedgehog." Lestrade said crossly, addressing John, and making everyone in the room turn their heads towards the blond man. "You're late."

John froze in his tracks, giving up his attempt at sneaking in and bent his head guiltily. This was it, he was doomed. Certainly he was going to get kicked out and he hadn't had the chance to work there for even one day!

Meanwhile Sherlock's face had brightened significantly, eager to see what would happen next. It wasn't hard to guess that he was rather enthusiastic for the same reasons, John was anxious about.

All of a sudden the chef softened into a toothy smile. "I love you." he said and much to John's confusion and surprise( not to mention _horror_) took the younger man by his shoulders and planted a loud and phony kiss on his forehead.

"Everyone who's put on him, get the money over here!"

Simultaneous groans sounded from different parts of the kitchen and an awkward process of searching and digging in pockets followed next. Only Sherlock remained completely unmoved, rolling his eyes so far into the top of his head he could see hair growing.

As Lestrade actually began collecting his won money, John felt as self-conscious as ever. Was he supposed to feel glad or offended? He didn't have much time dwell on the idea though, as the head chef turned to him again.

"Now, if you do that again," he said, pointing a warning finger at him, "I'll surely fire you."

"Got it." John nodded quickly.

"Good boy. Nervous about your first day?"

"A bit." he admitted.

"That's a norm." Lestrade assured him, shaking off his worries. "You'll do fine if you remember a few important things tha-"

"Chef."

Lestrade looked up when a woman, about the same age as John, interrupted their conversation.

She had her hair arranged into a pony tail and she was wearing a white V-neck sweater that nobbled to boobs that belonged on a much larger woman and a short black knit skirt that would fit a much smaller woman. John kind of felt sympathetic towards her, as he remembered how long he had been fighting for his own uniform, before they got him the right size at last.

"What is it, Molly?" Lestrade asked, gesturing impatiently for her to speak up.  
The waitress fidgeted with her fingers, finding it hard to formulate, whatever she had to say, into a proper sentence.

"There is a... A woman who is..." She took a breath and tried again. "How do you call a chef woman?"

"Freak of nature." Lestrade answered curtly and turned back to John. "So I was saying..."

"I hate to interrupt, but the 'freak of nature' is sitting in the next room."

"What?" Greg asked bluntly, looking at Molly, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

The waitress hurried to explain. "She's from that restaurant that opened a few months ago."

"The one around the corner?" she nodded and Lestrade sighed, rubbing his temples tiredly.

"Fine. Let's see what she wants." he said eventually and then did something John hoped he would not have. "Sherlock, get your boney ass over here."

The mentioned man, who was currently in the middle of applying milk into his freshly prepared béchamel, let out an indignant huff at being called that( though, the lack of complaining from the said ass, hinted John that it was not a rare occurrence), nonetheless made his way over to them, thrusting a measuring cup into Anderson's hands.

He acknowledged John's presence with a mere nod, which the latter took as remarkable progress since, only a few hours ago, the man pretended he simply didn't exist.

"I think there's no point in wasting our time with all the introducing rubbish..." Lestrade went on, "I want you to show our John, where and how he can get started. You know, show him around, tell him what to do..."

"You mean he is going to sta-"

"For the time's being he is absolutely under your responsibility. Can I trust you on that?"

Sherlock looked from Lestrade to John as if hoping someone was going to shout 'April Fool'. When nobody did, he opened his mouth yet again and shook his head.

"Very well." he said wearily and John couldn't help the lopsided grin from appearing on his face. Oh, this was going to be interesting.

He knew that Sherlock was basically Lestrade's right hand. He kept things running while Lestrade was off paying maintenances and/or busy betting on various pools. And to be on good terms with the man was more than convenient, but as to why Sherlock was so negatively charged towards him, he had no idea.

"Since you've already found yourself useful," Sherlock started, once both Molly and Lestrade were out of view. "I think you'll manage with arranging the received products. You may start."

John's stomach dropped and he stammered to speak. "Uh...umm. Excuse me."

"Yes?"

"But I thought I was going to be cooking..."

Sherlock regarded him with an incredulous look "Well it seems like you have accredited yourself with two abilities that you do not possess."

At John's perplexed expression, he smiled a little, before adding.  
"Thinking and cooking. Good morning."

**AN: Hello once again...and here is some info about this chapter. First of all this story is eventually going to include Johnlock, just so that you're warned. I don't think that ratings will go up, but I'll add the warnings if there'll be need.  
I'm just an amateur in this whole kitchen and cooking area, so I hope I have and will get most of the things right. Anyway, here are some things that could have got you confused.**

In Italian.  
_Client Preferito- favourite client;  
Certo- certainly/ of course;  
Sempre Fresco- always fresh;  
Buona Fortuna- good luck.  
_

The Kitchen Staff And Some Terminus.  
_Chef de Cuisine- head chef;  
Sous-chef- the second-in-command and direct assistant of the Chef de Cuisine;  
Ched de Partie- is in charge of a particular area of production;  
Commis- a basic chef;  
Toque- a chef hat;  
Arborio- is small grained rice used to make risotto; Béchamel- a sauce made with milk and roux and seasonings; Mangez Bien- means 'eat well' in French._

**Well dears, this is all for the time's being. And don't forget to let me know what you think of this. Peace.**


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